Ageless
by cafeanna
Summary: What matters to Amaimon in that moment is that the white building with its white walls and white magics will soon be a thing of the past; a bitter memory that would leave an acidic taste in his mouth. / Or, the Earth King is not ready to part with his wife. [Shiemi/Amaimon]
1. in which the king makes a bargain

**title:** ageless

**genre: **romance / hurt / comfort / horror

**pairings:** shiemi/amaimon, rin/bon

**warnings: **death, destruction, half-baked ideas

* * *

"This is a story about the  
monsters and the lovers,

This is a story about how  
they became the same thing."

—Emily Palermo, _Love in the Time of Monsters_

* * *

**chapter o1. in which the demon king makes a bargain**

* * *

Amaimon draws open the window and despite the hard, grinding, resistance, it slides up, quick as a shaft. He leans his shoulders out, surveying the cool autumn night and looking out onto the drop ten floors below. This side of the hospital faces the forest where beyond is the river, then the city floating like a dream-lit star on a cloud of mist.

His eyes scan the trees until he spots what he is looking for among the underbrush—a bird. Or, something bird-shaped made of shadow and blood. Amaimon lifts his chin in a nod. The took takes flight, scooping air beneath its wings and diving back into the forest. Becoming a creature of shadows once again.

He hesitates there a moment. Welcomes the cool relief of air, the perfect slice of moon above the city lights, the perfect black velvet of the night in the forest buzzing with life.

Tonight is a night.

Slowly, he turns back to the cool gray room, watching the shadows flicker and chase each other from beyond the blessed candles. The scent of them, and the blessed oils and symbols of magic, leave a burnt under-taste in his mouth. Besides the acidic tastes of _hospital._

In a sweep, he reclaims his spot on the plastic hospital bed, careful not to disturb his bed-fellow in the deepest of sleeps.

He stares on, eyes red with irritation, at the lily-white form in the bed beneath the heap of blankets that were quickly becoming useless, he cannot make out the rise and falls of her chest.

He had brought blankets in the beginning. He had brought them and put the pink cat slippers on her feet. He had brought her sweaters and pajama pants and scarves and gloves. He had all but conjured a fire-spite to sit at her bedside.

But everything he has done, all his efforts, were laid to waste as the slow, deep coldness blossomed like a flower _inside _his wife.

_My wife, _he thinks, dismally and then he begins to peal back the layers of blankets, one by one—the old quilt, the shabby red flannel, the deep purple throw, the jersey comforter—until she is, from the waist-up in nothing but her sweater, her pale white hands knotted together like tree roots in the winter.

He stares at her, the pale, pale whiteness of her and something swells in his chest.

She had been so beautiful when they met. All smiles and sun-kissed cheeks and a spool of long, golden hair he could curl around and around his fingers like rings. He had adored her completely. Her soft voice, her quiet, brimming confidence, her style of dress, the way she spoke—

But she had, as human often do, faded.

Pretty hurts and pretty fades, as the saying goes, but it did not strike the chord it hit. Shiemi's prettiness, the vivacious liveliness of her, had not faded due to malice or age, quite the opposite.

Her prettiness was diminished only because of the disease that racked her body, demeaning her fragile, lily-ghost-white, sickly. The kind of illness that waned her rosy cheeks to parlor, her thick hair to clumps, her cheery smile to one of strained lips.

Shiemi has been diagnosed and dying for months now with no relief, no medicine, no cure in sight.

He feels the tightness in his chest with the realization and that does not relent either. It continues clamping, like a fist, as he stares down at his cold wife, the one he had been coiled up against in sleep not twenty minutes before.

He reaches for her, brushing the back of his hand across her cheek, but she does not stir.

Her dry, white lips remain parted, but no sound comes out.

He takes her hands in his, touching the callous hills of her palms, the sea-shell press of her fingernails, the thin wrists that he can circle with finger and thumb. She is delicate and bird-like and beautiful. And the strange coldness that has intruded and robbed her, has taken hold, stiffening her bones and skin.

From his own throat, he issues a noise, not a cry, but something almost animal in relation.

In all his years of existence, he has never cried, never eked a sob, never felt a hot rush or tears nor the constriction of them in his throat.

He cannot do these things. He is, as he always had been, a demon and the very symbols the exorcists carved into his wife's bed repel him, but he is stronger, older, and always would be.

He will always be ageless in the turn of time.

Unlike his human bride.

Amaimon does not cry, but he mourns.

He takes her cold hands and presses them to his face, trying to remember how they felt when they were warm, flushed with life, tugging him into an embrace and loving him. He remembers her hands smelling of roses and thyme from the garden, the rinds of dirt under her nails almost floral, how she would squeal with disgust and laughter when he chewed on her nails.

He presses her hands harder to his face, chasing the memory, but the coldness, the deadness of her sinks into him like a stone.

What is he to do?

He looks around as if for answers, but the cold, button-eyed stares of her slippers gaze blearily back at him.

He does not want to call her mother or a nurse or the doctor. He has been privy enough to his fair share of stares and ridicule form nameless humans. The nurses and doctors who were informed of his wife's profession—and who he was—and distrusted him immediately. Then, Shiemi's mother whom had wailed and accused him of cursing her.

These are selfish thoughts.

And selfish more as he knows that if he were to call someone, then he would be separated from her. He body would be stripped and washed and placed in a box, burned to ashes and scattered far, far away from him.

Human could mourn for most of their lives and never loose an iota of their loss. For demons, it is much the same and quite different.

Amaimon can mourn for an hour or a year, but it would all be the same. A drop in the ocean of his grief. He could recall the cheer of her smile centuries down the life and feel the rush of warmth and longing just as fiercely as the day he lost her.

"Shiemi," he whispers and stiffens when he hears the sounds of footsteps in the hall. His muscles tense with fight, but the nurse never checks her stride as she sails past their quiet, dark room. More pressed matters to attend to.

When she passes, Amaimon untenses, smoothing his thumb over the back of Shiemi's hand.

"My raven said you signaled him." His brother has arrived. Amaimon can see him out of the corner of his eye as he manifests on the window, the jaunty tilt of his hat, an insult. He leans over her as if to hide her from his brother's sight, but it's a futile gesture. "Aw, I see," His brother's ice blue eyes—the same eyes all the brothers shared—affix to him. "What are you thinking, little brother?"

His fanged mouth tugs at the corners, not a smile, but not a frown either.

He has Mephisto's attention, then.

Amaimon presses his lips thin and looks back to Shiemi. It pinches something inside of him. Something deep and harrowing and possessive. Something scary he reigns back for her. Something demonic he keeps barred in his chest and out of her sight. She loved him best without it, therefore, it was not necessary.

His head is still swimming with the ceremony that would proceed once he made the announcement—the collecting and washing and ashing. The inevitability of questions and accusations that he would hide from, guilty of nothing and unable to speak her name as it was blessed by holy lips.

He can already hear Shiemi's mother wailing.

He cannot bare it. In a thousand millennia of torture, he cannot imagine surviving the ceremonies humans play out after death.

He strokes down her side, a nervous habit of his. One that relaxed her in life and made her smile. She called him cat-like, cat-like and bat-like, just like the poem. He would curl around her for comfort when his nerves got the best of him, especially when she got sick. And she accepted this tick, this trait, because she loved him so well.

His finger graze over the white-apple of her cheek and then he leans down to kiss her mouth, like a faerietale, but her lashless eyelids do not flutter. Breath does not fill her. Sleep remains.

Amaimon's frown deepens.

"Amaimon," his brother's voice is edging on something, something soft and dark and dangerous. "Why did you call me here?"

It is this moment, Amaimon knows, he has nothing left to lose.

He rose from the bed and turns away from his wife, feeling cold even as he does so. He eyes his brother, sitting on the window ledge, curls of shadow and mist and power coiling around him like snakes. His head tips and the square of his jaw cracks.

"You know why I called you here." He says coolly.

In the dark corner of the white room, the Earth King makes a deal with the King of Time, whose nails hook like claws and bleed into his wrist in pact.

For years, no one will know of this conversation between the demon kings. The consequences of which will not be know until much later still. But that is not yet important. What matters to Amaimon in that moment is that the white building with its white walls and white magics will soon be a thing of the past; a bitter memory that will leave an acidic taste in his mouth.

For now, the flat line on the other side of the room begins to churn out a steady beat.

* * *

EDITS: changed the tense and the scene, so fixed it.

basis for my shipping: did one ever kidnap the other? ship that like FedEx.

i've missed writing for these two. my first fic of them, of course, was sweet and fluffy and now they are dark and scary. new series.

i know this fandom may be in a bit of a rut, but let me know what you think.

\- cafeanna


	2. in which things begin to steadily change

**title:** ageless

**genre: **romance / hurt / comfort / horror

**pairings:** shiemi/amaimon, rin/bon

**warnings: **death, destruction, ranting to my roommate (hi marisol) about how to make this cook

* * *

"This is a story about the  
monsters and the lovers,

This is a story about how  
they became the same thing."

—Emily Palermo, _Love in the Time of Monsters_

* * *

**chapter o2: in which things begin to steadily change**

* * *

Amaimon wakes to the sound of a sharp scream. His eyes snap open, half-startled, half-curious to find his wife hovering over him, hands pressed to her mouth, a basket of vegetables and herbs at her feet. "Oh my—" She chokes off the word, either by habit or by choice, and gathers her skirts together in her hands. She falls to her knees in a graceful collapse beside him, hands fretting in front of her, unsure.

"Amaimon," she says sounding winded and more awake than anyone should be this side of the morning. "What are you doing out here?"

Amaimon blinks up at her.

And blinks.

"What?"

Shiemi looks vaguely concerned. Eyes wide, an anxious flush rising to her cheeks. "You're in the garden," she says steadily, eyes searching his face. Amaimon glances around, noting that he is, in fact, in their garden. Shiemi continues, "You said you were going out for a bit and I found you out here. You scared me half to death."

Amaimon shifts. "Not to death." He murmurs and takes a breath, inhaling the sweet smells of the garden. The soft grass was freshly cut and dewy under him, bleeding through his nightshirt and creating a damp spot on his shoulder and back. The lavender bundles above him tip as if to shade his face from the rising sun.

Shiemi's garden always felt warm to him. The very soil beneath her feet warmed to accommodate her creations. Here, the greenmen ran rampant, singing and tending; a host of chuchi nestled in the old trees, buzzing at the occasional lookers-on; and a gathering of fae were housed in the larger flowers, holding courtly aspirations. All helped the garden grow.

The Earth King's wife is favored by his element, a queen even more beloved than their maker.

He leans up, the chill of his damp shirt chasing down his spine, and he presses a kiss to her lips. "I'm just taking a nap," he says lightly. "You snore so loudly; I needed some sleep."

Her nose crinkles at that and she smacks his arm, not hard, but he falls back, feigning to be wounded as she chastises him. "—you're going to mess up your neck if you sleep out here! You're scaring Nii-chan and his sisters!"

"Oh, they're fine." He groans and rolls so his head is pillowed against her knee, her bone against the hollow of his cheek. She has her fingers in his hair in an instant, brushing out stray blades of grass and wet flower petals, the perfume of the earth. He hums. "And your people slept on the ground for ages. You built mud-huts and worshiped the forest gods. They never had much a problem with it."

Shiemi snorts in a put-upon way that she does more for the effect than actual reaction. She ambles into a light-hearted conversation about all the things he never cared to learn about humans. Still her fingers worked through his hair, moving against the nape of his neck, massaging the muscle there for tension. He purrs under her hands.

He captures one of her hands, splaying the fingers wide so he can decipher the lines stitched into her palm. He presses his mouth against it, tasting soil and mint and tea leaves.

She makes another noise. Less put upon.

"—and life expectancy was quite different." She mumbles the last part, like a sleepy story-teller, though Amaimon knows she rarely brings up human life and death matters if she can help it. This must have been a vague rant, distracted, a mistake.

He smiles against her hand. "Lucky me, I've trapped you forever."

It's a joke, a jest, but she smiles and kisses his temple, making the morning worries cease from his mind.

* * *

The afternoon ambles on quite the same for them. Shiemi has work and so after breakfast she goes up to her office with an earthen mug of steaming tea and her hair braided into a knot. She has new data to decipher and papers from her online class to grade, so bothering her is out of the question.

Amaimon toils away the hours the usual way, he returns back to the garden. They have a couple new saplings in the back corner to compensate for the privacy fence they could not get approved.

Although, it was less of a garden and more of a large plot of forest preserve and yard they had landscaped and bled into submission. The end result had bloomed beautifully under Shiemi's care. From his space near the miniature orchard, he could see the frosted glass of Shiemi's private greenhouse—the one she used for work and for most of her experiments.

He surveys the sapling sprouting feebly in its mount of fresh turned soil and support bar. The glossy leaves were beginning to brown and brittle. The fresh healthy red-brown glow of the wood beginning to darken with rot.

Amaimon sighs and reaches his claws into the soil, feeling around for the root. It just needs a little incentive, like all things, to grow and blossom.

It was an unseasonal decision. In fact, an un-regional one too. But, he had assured Shiemi he would make it work so they would have large gnarling trees like in faerietales.

He reaches out through the soil, reaching _in _and _within—_

He knows undoubtably, he can make the plant grow to his bidding. Earth is his element, dictated to him in ceremony by spilling his lifeblood into the earth's core to gain its power many, many years ago. Since, he has held an unquestioning monopoly and authority over all things earthen and natural.

But this time, when Amaimon digs his nails into the soil, coiling his fingers with the baby's hair roots, he feels nothing.

A simple, overwhelming nothing.

Not the pulse of the tree, not the root of dehydration, not the sweet death of rot—

Just nothing.

Simple as death.

He digs another hand into the soil, curling his fingers together and reaching, but nothing comes.

* * *

When Amaimon enters through the kitchen, Shiemi is making lunch while talking on the phone with her mother. She throws a smile over her shoulder at him and gestures to her cell phone with a spoon. "—yeah okaa-san, yes, Amaimon just walked in."

There is a confusing pause of static and then a half-hearted hello for him. Amaimon raises a brow at this, but doesn't bother to return the nicety. As he passes behind Shiemi, he plants a messy kiss on her temple, smearing the dirt from his chin onto her cheek.

"Wash your hands!" She squawks at him and he waves, impish and circles the kitchen island to the deep sink under the window sill. Shiemi returns to her conversation, explaining his actions to her mother and _hmm-_ing and _uhh-huh_-ing every so often to her staticky chatter. She is determined not to burn the white bean chili on the stove.

Amaimon tunes her out as he soaks his hands in the great pot of water, she left the vegetables in. His fingers dance atop the prime bell peppers a riot of yellows, greens, and reds. Not a spot, not a splotch, not a hole. Perfectly formed and grown.

He stares out the window, puzzling over the garden and the tenderness in his hands.

He had uprooted the tree in a fit of anger. Torn the sapling from the ground and tore its sinewy, spiny body piece by piece by piece. He had been surprised to feel that it hurt. Him and the tree. In his fit, the soft, smooth bark had ripped at his palms, fighting him as he tore it from existence.

But he felt it fight.

He felt the subtle, screaming heart of it that withered and shrieked as he killed it.

He feels much calmer now.

Soaking his hands in the cool water until his claws retract to normal, until his head stops spinning, until the panic subsides and he can think.

He wants to put his head under the cold water and sleep for a year.

He peers up at the host of tinier plants Shiemi has on the window sill, too small for the garden yet not delicate enough for her greenhouse. Inquisitively, he lifts one hand from the water to sink a nail into the soil of a cherry tomato plant. The soil is a bit dry, brittle even, but not neglected, not dead. Shiemi just has yet to make her rounds to them.

He presses in with just a touch of power, just a drop, and the cherry tomatoes bloom. The stock pushes up from its clay pot, spilling lazily over the side with the fruits of its labors swelling on the counter like bright, red rubies. Beautifully.

Its just as it should be.

Just as he's always done.

He hears the click of the phone belatedly as Shiemi puts her hands around his waist. "Sorry, okaa-san wanted to tell me about the shop. I just called her to double-check the recipe." He fists the hand towel twice and tosses it back on the counter, worries forgotten.

He turns in the embrace to lean against the counter, but feels uncomfortable under her weight.

Normally, he is the clingy one. The one tangling his fingers in her hair, kissing her knuckles and wrists, pinching the fabric of her skirts, sprawling out at her feet like a lazy cat while she works. But the shock of his power—of the sapling—has him on edge.

Shiemi leans listlessly against the line of his body with the line of hers. The full, soft curve of her calms him down and he rubs his hand down the valley of her sides. "You tired?" she asks.

He smiles at her, a challenging one. "Not tired," he relents and presses his mouth against her hair. He breathes in the scent of her. Not yet showered. The earthy smells of soil and camellia and smoke blends with the smell of peppers and sleep. A wonderful blend of an easy day. Later, after she showers, she will smell like lavender and rose oils. Even later, maybe sweat.

But there is something underneath her scent.

Something not plant-based or recycled air.

He leans more insistently against her and she, unknowingly, cuddles more up to him. The fluffy, softness of her cardigan filling his arms. "Mhh, it's so cold in here."

The comment draws a line through his focus and Amaimon leans back a bit to eye her. He had not sensed her illness when it came on, not until the last time when her body was too racked with chemicals and bile to produce much else. _Could have caught it earlier, _the doctor had said. Still, she does not look sick or pale or chilly.

Then again, she hadn't before.

As if sensing his worry, Shiemi leans up to him, kissing his chin and then his mouth. The sweet pecks of her kisses taste like tea, like basil, like her. He chases the taste, thoughts diverted again.

"I should start breaking out the winter clothes." She hums noncommittally, an explanation, but not. "They say winter is coming early this year."

Amaimon is not sure who _they _are and has never deigned to ask, but he feels in his bones an early winter is upon them. A season of hibernation, quiet, and relief from school. They will switch the air systems in the house, tend to the garden in the late morning when the sun is high, put up a tree, and crack hazelnuts by the fireplace.

And if he is good enough, Shiemi might make the Japanese Christmas cake he likes and she rarely makes.

Her body is warm against his, warm and flushed from the sweater and the greenhouse and cooking over the oven stove. He brushes his thumb over her cheek. Then, brow ticking, he brings his thumb to his mouth and then proceeds to wipe his spit-covered finger across her cheek.

She rears against him, squealing. "Amaimon!"

"You have a smudge of dirt."

"Then let me wipe it off with a towel!"

"No."

* * *

The days continue much the same. They house the tiny plants and wrap hay and blankets around the others while winter descends. Shiemi is busy with finals and work, so he spends much of his time preparing preserves and soaking the so-so plants with enough power to last them through winter.

He has no more of those mix ups. Those strange moments of unfeeling, of nothing.

He finishes his work early and Shiemi rewards him with kisses, with cake, with sweets.

They arrange poinsettias around the house, they decorate, they force the hobgoblins roosting in the attic to wear Santa Claus hats. On a dreary gray day, Amaimon leaves a letter to Satan Claws in his stocking and hears Shiemi's crack of laughter from across the house.

They are settling in, cozying up, and everything is as it ought to be, until the letter arrives.

Shiemi is usually too busy to get the mail, so Amaimon tends to comb it. Bills, letters, trash.

This one, however, this tricky thick envelope with heavy paper and thick, creamy stationary slips through his fingers and somehow lands on Shiemi's work desk.

He is trying his hand at cake making when she comes into the room, flushed and half-spilling her reindeer mug of coco mint tea when she waves the letter above her like a flag. "I got offered a job!" She announces and it's like a cannonball soaring to flight and landing in his chest.

The buttermilk batter spills over the side of the bowl, drippling lazily across the polished wood counter top. Amaimon stares at her, blinks.

"You have a job." He says as if this is obvious and then wonders if he has missed anything. Did Shiemi mention quitting? Being fired? Deciding to give up teaching at a human university and spend all her time taming hobgoblins in Osaka?

She smiles, brightly. "I do!" She says and, without losing steam, she squeals again. "I do, but not from an exorcist organization." That is more by design than by choice. Her illness left her too sick and too weak to deal with anything more powerful than low level demons. And although Shiemi's taming abilities were amiable, the organization refused to put her danger.

Because of him most likely, but Amaimon would never ease that threat of revolt if it keeps his bride safe and out of hands to his otherkin.

"But, but—" She is bouncing now. Her legs winding with muscle, preparing to spring, to leap, to kick the sky. "I got a letter from Mephisto. He said a space opened up for a Taming professor at True Cross. He's offering me the job, on a trial basis, of course, but—"

Amaimon feels his claws lengthening in kind. Mephisto. He should have known. He should have _realized. _

Shiemi waves the envelope and he can still catch the bits of glamor clinging to the paper. A notice on the water bill morphing into a personal letter. His brother's human name scrawled in inky black. A coy, toiling promise of danger on the horizon.

* * *

okay, once i switched to first-person i started getting into this. I feel like I can really capture amaimon's quiet, obsessive, love in this tense. as well as shiemi's innocence, neglect, and their strange skewed love story.

i enjoy this and i hope you do too. so please, drop a kudos or tell me a line you liked or a characterization you enjoyed or just to say hi and how strange and cool with pairing would be.

\- cafeanna


	3. in which the stage is set

**title:** ageless

**genre: **romance / hurt / comfort / horror

**pairings:** shiemi/amaimon, rin/bon

**warnings: **domestics, cuties, i'm on desk five more hours, i'm watching movies

* * *

"This is a story about the  
monsters and the lovers,

This is a story about how  
they became the same thing."

—Emily Palermo, _Love in the Time of Monsters_

* * *

**chapter o3: in which the stage is set**

* * *

Shiemi is, and has always been, a creature of habit.

Most days, she wakes before the sun, a begrudging habit from her school days carried over to her days as an exorcist carried over into her early retirement. She slinks out of her warm nest of bedsheets and limbs and stretches to the sun, reaching fingers and toes and twisting the sweet lull of sleep from her bones. She dresses quickly, careful not to wake her husband, before she sneaks downstairs and onto the back patio and into the misty morning. Her bare feet curling at the blades of cool grass.

The sunlight comes up over the peak of the hills and bathes her shadowed garden in golden light.

Truly, a sight to behold.

Then, there is her rounds she makes, a strict routine of clearing, snipping, checking, and marking. Her garden is the family business, and handled with the tenderest care.

But, since the winter came and, subsequently, her letter from True Cross of impending employment, her usual bustle of activity to get the day going has dulled some. She feels lethargic during the winter months and puts faith in Amaimon's spells over heading out into the frozen morning shoeless.

She sticks to her greenhouse, an annexed piece of their home, a tiny kingdom of wavy frosted windows and long wooden tables and metal hooks dripping with curling vines. Every surface positively blooming with flora and fauna.

Today, however, is different.

As today is her first day of school for student orientation.

As such, her usual monotonous routine is thrown into an absolute riot.

"Wha—wha—what? Why didn't you wake me!?" She tumbles unceremoniously out of bed. The fear of the time clock staring her down. Her anxiety spikes dangerously, leaving her shaking in the wake of her eminent count down. On her way to the closet, she metamorphs into a creature of elbows and knees, sheets tangling with her legs as they untuck from the bed.

Amaimon hums from the doorway, nonchalant and innocent with his mug. "I've made tea," he says in response, lifting her favorite mug into view. Shiemi nearly brains herself on the doorframe.

"Darling!" She exclaims, exasperated.

"You looked so peaceful." Amaimon says in response, sagely as a monk.

Shiemi's eyes scan her side of the closet, looking for the outfit she thought up last night. She could have sworn she laid it out on the dresser. "I have to meet Mephisto for a faculty meeting in thirty minutes!" She exclaims and pens the top drawer for socks and then shuts it, realizing she doesn't need them. Then opens it again for stockings.

No time for the pretty kimono she prepared. She feels nervous and sick all over again. She had spent the precious weeks, before the beginning of the new term carefully scheduling and planning out the new semester, but with such a start, it felt like an omen.

"Tell him you're sick."

Shiemi tucks her head around the doorframe, meeting Amaimon with a steady look.

"I'm _fine. _I'm perfectly healthy, and I—" The sound of her leaving alarm goes off and she screams. "I'm going to be so late!"

On rare days, days likes these which will soon become most days, Shiemi likes to plan ahead. She likes to plan where she will be, how she will get there, and how long she will take to reach her destination. She normally would toy with her plan, stretch it like a rubber band, making time for breakfast and a tea, a quick turn about the garden, or an extra few minutes to wish Amaimon a good day without her.

Planning takes the anxiety out of the event, she finds.

She stumbles out of the closet, one button in another's hole, her silky raspberry blouse half-tucked into her skirt.

Amaimon keeps his post at the doorframe leading to the hall and everything else she needs. He offers her the mug again, like he tried to do five minutes ago, and she takes it, sips, and hands it back. It's watery, not seeped nearly as long as she does, but potent in flavor. Chamomile, rosemary, and honey thick and sweet. "For your throat," he says quietly, "you looked cold."

That gives her pause. "Thank you, honey."

She continues her progress into the bathroom, flicking on the light, she startles a moment to see Amaimon's reflection in the mirror behind her.

Amaimon watches her, a look of perfect puzzlement on his face. Since she received Mephisto initial letter, he had been staring at her with increased intensity, as if her illness might start again in earnest, but Shiemi has been optimistic, as had her doctor, and did her best to soothe Amaimon's concerns.

"I'll call if anything happens." She assures, fastening one earring and then the other. At least _those _are where she left them. She quickly brushes her teeth and takes extra care not to get toothpaste on her nice blouse.

"Something _always_ happens at that place." Amaimon says and she ducks in the mirror, missing his strained expression. Shiemi can feel the steady build of his anxiety, the conversations they have hashed out in the past months between preparations, doctors' visits, and long afternoons of paperwork. "Shiemi."

"Everything will be fine, darling, don't worry." She soothes and gets her hands in her hair. A braid might be too much. Perhaps a ponytail? She begins to twist and roll and smooth, her fingers reaching and straining to gather up her hair. It grew as thick and tawny as a pelt after her last bout of chemo. Beautiful, gold, silken locks.

When she woke to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, she would often find herself startled by her face in the mirror. Sleep-drunk, her face, her moon-pale face, surrounded by all that pale hair, she looked ghostly.

She shifts her attention to her face now, and yawns.

No time for breakfast.

She turns and nearly runs into Amaimon again, his proximity at once startling and then sinking into vague annoyance. "Amaimon," She says slowly, afraid of having another conversation while she is trying to run out the door. "Amaimon, I'm late—"

She never says anything more as he gathers her into his arms and crushes her in an embrace. Its short, quick, but the crush of his body against hers lingers in the press of her clothes. When he steps away, he looks at her and his expression is pitiful.

He looks like a lost child, an orphan, marooned and alone without a soul in the world.

It breaks her heart and, for a moment, the barest sliver of a second, she considers calling Mephisto and saying—

Amaimon hands her their Infinity Key, the one with a direct line to True Cross, the one she kept in a drawer in her office. "Have a good day," he says, without much cheer.

* * *

"_Guten morgen_, my dear sister-in-law! You look—" Mephisto's cheery greeting is cut short when he gets a good look at her: rumpled, sweaty, falling out of what is True Cross's formal door and is their supply closet. The clatter of one terracotta pot nearly sends her reeling. "—well, at least you slept well."

She hadn't.

Her cheeks fill with color as she struggles to get the key out of the door. She is not worried about Amaimon following her in some last-ditch effort to make her quit, but she is very sure the hobgoblins in the attic would love to visit. "—Pheles-san! I am so sorry, I, I had a bit of a rough start this morning. I hope you can forgive me, I—" Distantly, she can hear the pig-squealing noises of the pack on the move.

Mephisto, with the patience of a saint, takes pity on her and leans down to twist her key, guiding her from the door as the portal closed behind her and then snapping it shut firmly. "Nonsense, you're family. We all make exceptions for family."

Shiemi smiles sheepishly, unsure if she should be offended or—

Mephisto smiles, fangs gleaming. "Now, I cannot have you meeting the rest of faculty in such a state! Allow me," Before she can comment, Mephisto snaps his fingers—_eins, zwei, drei_—and her outfit is smooth, cool, and mature. Her hair is tamed into a silken bun. The scent of flowers drifts to her nose.

Mephisto often fancies himself her Fairy Godfather.

"Thank you," she bows and Mephisto bows in kind, then he offers her his arm. "I looked horrid, didn't I?"

"Nonsense!" He waves away her comment as if it were an errant fly. "You, my dear sister, don't look a day over twenty." Then he laughs, sharply, loudly as if the noise was startled out of him and once it let spilled from his lips, it was as mighty as a waterfall.

* * *

"—but the staff is really nice! We all went out for lunch after the meeting. I need to be on campus tomorrow to help with student move-ins, but then the cram school should meet later in the day." She carries on, topping off the hot chocolates with sprinkles of organic chocolate and cinnamon.

The hobgoblins are in the kitchen are squealing beyond the island, territories being drawn over their dinner bowls. "There's plenty for everybody!" She calls and the squealing cuts off and they are polite creatures again.

"You shouldn't coddle them so!" Amaimon calls from the back patio. She left the door propped open so she could carry the drinks out.

"I'm not!" She calls back, lifting the tray as she begins her maneuver out the door, stepping over straps and glances back affectionately at her little monsters. "They're my babies! They deserved to be spoiled a little!"

Amaimon is silent. She hits the door with her elbow and it snaps shut before any of her babies can get free and trample the healing bed gardenias they trampled earlier. Once she's on the patio, she sees the cause of Amaimon's silence.

It is one of the beautiful blue evenings in April, a little chilly, but not as wet as the season has been so far. Their firepit is set up with two wicker chairs and blankets, an assort of fireside treats at the ready.

Amaimon is standing at the edge of the patio, his hand extended to the sky, a black shape morphing into the bare flesh of his arm. If Shiemi had been new to this, she may have been terrified at seeing her husband absorb a shadow creature into his body, but since she has been married for so many years, and an exorcist for longer, she knows a messenger when she sees one.

"Everything alright?" She asks, setting the hot chocolates on the low table.

Amaimon's eyes are closed for a long moment and then they open. Without a word, he drifts back to the chairs and sinks low like the cushions might swallow him up. Elbows on the armrests, nails tapering down to points. She frowns.

"I have to go to visit a friend." There is a far-off quality to his voice, as if he were still wrapped up in the message.

"Oh," She sinks to the chair beside his, her hands folded on the arm so she could lean over to him. "Something wrong?" She prompts and regrets it when she sees the expression on his face.

Amaimon looks wearily out to the forest surrounding their garden where the trees beyond grow dark and deep, gnarled roots gladly rising up to trip, branches hanging low enough to swoop intruders off of their feet. A fortress against the world outside.

Shiemi wonders if he knows his teeth show when he is not paying attention, as if bared against some yet unseen threat.

"Humans have disgraced her forest," he murmurs, quick and low under his breath. He ducks his head, nails tapping. "She calls for aid."

"What have they done?" she asks, quietly.

"The usual things they do. They're tearing at her trees, uprooting nests," He shivers as if the very thought and Shiemi feels it in kind. "I will go to her tomorrow night. She is in anguish over her forest."

Shiemi bites her lip. "Do you think she will turn violent?"

Amaimon stills beside her. The line of his body becoming a composition of firm lines and hard edges. His nails tap harder.

"What will you do," he asks quietly, not looking at her, "if she becomes violent?"

And that's a question, a loaded one. Shiemi can feel her teeth on her cheek, but she can't let up. What will she do indeed? As an exorcist, even a semi-retired one, she has vows to keep, regulations to uphold. True Cross has given her everything she has ever known in life. Her childhood home, her family's relative comfort, her education, her career, and, when she was sick, the ability to pay for it all.

She is not stupid; she's an asset. Even before her marriage to Amaimon, she was a well-known contract Tamer and Herbologist with an affinity for all manner of greenery. If there was anything her mother ever taught her, it is to not bite the hand that feeds.

All debts to True Cross must be paid in full.

And she has been, little by little, by helping with cases and raising chuchi and gollums and hobgoblins, training them from their nature, making them docile, creating the only arguments her and her husband have ever had.

And now—this. Her role as his wife, a demon king's mortal wife, with no sway over the decisions he makes in his realm, but a strong history of giving advice.

Shiemi knows what people say, but despite her clothes, she is not as traditional as some. She wore white on her wedding day and a tsunokakushi to their ceremony, much to Amaimon's amusement. She was humbled before her friends and family, married to someone she loved dearly. But, she was not subservient to him. She does not toil away in their little magical house, paying the bills, cooking the meals, running the place.

She is not subservient. She just chooses her business carefully, for her sake and his.

"I just don't want this to get out of hand." She says, selecting a candied strawberry from one of the snack bowls. "I am sure if we ask Mephisto or Yuki, they can have someone—"

Amaimon's shoulders tighten. Shiemi watches his hands clamp tight over the arms the chair, nails curling. There is something slow and steady fanning a flame inside him when he turns to her and says, "And if they go somewhere else? Destroy another forest? Do you think that _Cuckcoo _or the _half-breed_ will care?"

She stares at him. The candied strawberry sticking to her fingertips. Normally, Amaimon refrains from insulting Yuki in her presence. As, brotherly connections be damned, he has always seen Rin as the more obvious relation. Whereas Yuki's _talents _were a bit lackluster for his taste.

Her expression must portray her displeasure because Amaimon winces. "Sorry," he mutters, half-hearted, low. She frowns deeper. "_Sorry._"

His eyes cut from her to the shadows created by the fire. His expression is pensive again, jaw tight, lips peaking.

She pops the candy in her mouth, letting the sugary coating melt on her tongue before she bites into the strawberry. It's tart, not from her garden, but good all the same. Amaimon had insisted on junk food for their romantic fireside date. She had insisted on a healthy dinner of rosemary and goat cheese sandwiches with tomato basil soup and stem salad.

They compromised like that. Give and take, as the saying goes. Helping one another where the other is weakest and, for her husband, that is emotions.

"Tell me what's on your mind." She says and feels like a command as she is saying it, but she needs answers. "I can't help you if you don't tell me." She sucks on her thumb and prepares to wait.

He is silent for several seconds, taking deep even breaths, staring into the fire. Then, as Shiemi is reaching for another strawberry, he extends his hand. His claw shrinking back to smooth, rounded black nails. It is an open invitation to him, and she takes it. She slips her fingers into his and allows herself to be tugged into his lap, settling with her back to his chest.

She tips back against his shoulder, her ear at his throat so she can feel him.

"What is it about this forest that has you so distraught?"

His voice hums against her ear. "It's not just this forest."

"What is it then?"

"That's how forest gods die," he says, stroking a hand through her long hair. "Their lands are taken and they are driven out. Without their land, they have no power. Without power, they cannot defend themselves. Without the ability to defend themselves, they are eaten up by more powerful kin. Sucked out like marrow from a bone. And then the cycle repeats."

Amaimon is not the sort to have his voice betray what he is feeling. She learned that early. Amaimon's tell has always been his hands, nervous twisting, toying, picking. She can feel the gentle combing of his fingers through her hair, the slide of his fingers almost insistent.

She curls her fingers with his and kisses his hand. They are chilly, clammy with fear and she gives, just a little.

"Go to her," she says finally. "Go to her. Settle the matter. I will say nothing. I promise."

As if it is as easy as that.

* * *

The first day of the new cram school class is a strange one. Shiemi watches her coworker give a brief breakdown of the semester, but then asks the golden question that segues into her lesson. "Now, who here has not yet had their temptaint?" A considerable amount of hands raise in response.

Not surprising, most students this year don't come from exorcist families. They are all "fresh blood" as Mephisto says.

"Well, Moriyama-san would you like to take over from here? This is your area of expertise."

She can feel herself beaming and tries to hide it.

She rises from her chair as slowly as she can with her briefcase and smoothing the skirt of her kimono, a beautiful piece patterned with roses and lace, and walks to the front of the room. "This is Moriyama Shiemi, she will be your Taming professor."

"I look forward to working with all of you," She scans the row of students, seven, what a lucky number, and smiles. "I am sure we can all learn from one another."

She gives what she feels is the best explanation for temptaint, their vague histories and unusual uses, however, she is sure to keep it short and sweet. "However, I will be summoning a creature you will all be able to see, as it is as common in the everyday world as it is in ours."

Withdrawing a slip of paper, she plans on showing it as a reference—maybe a quick teaser for her class later—but as soon as she sees the seal and her thumb presses down, something happens, the paper s_hifts._

Then, in a puff of smoke, one of her chuchi from home appears before her—tiny, fuzzy, and delicate. She snatches it quickly in her cupped hands. Flushed. The chuchi buzzes madly, bewildered, tiny wings beating, legs scratching. Shiemi feels her heart jump into her throat. "So, um, any questions before we get started?"

The cadence in her voice goes highly ignored as awe fills the room. Most of it is praises. The rest, however, is skepticism.

"—did you just summon without blood?"

The chuchi's furious wings on her palms feels like the pulse of her heart.

Did she?

God, did she?

If she were bleeding right now, the chuchi might jump into a frenzy. She had wanted a hobgoblin, one of her babies with filed claws and curious eyes, a cute little bugger that looks like a cat to some and a pig to others.

How had she done that?

"My," Her new coworker adjusts his glasses, impressed. "President Pheles did sing your praises at the faculty meeting. I always heard that you were a talented Tamer, Moriyama-san, but I did not know the extent of your abilities."

Her nerves choke up in her throat.

"Don't be silly! Flutters here is from my own garden. He must have come with me today." She laughs it off and lifts her cupped hands to her mouth to whisper, "Settle down, boy."

The chuchi, reluctantly obeys and lays still in her hands as she turns over her palm. His lacy white wings with their violet webbed veins displaying the traits he was bred for. A beauty, obviously, but a breed known for their silk and larvae. Her coworker gasps again.

"My, my, that is a mighty fine job. Children, this is a wonderful learning experience." He makes a gathering gesture and the students, reluctant parallels of the chuchi, do as they are bid, but keep a firm distance. "You see this? Miss Moriyama has been taming lower and mid-level demons for years for True Cross. Is this one of the specimens you received?"

She tries not to flinch at his tone, but she does.

"No, Flutters comes from the third generation of chuchi I have raised." She says, running a soothing finger across the demon moth's back.

She can feel him buzzing with life, his tiny little belly grumbling despite the feeding she gave the swarm last night. She thinks back to a few seconds before, with Flutters appearing out of nowhere, and takes a deep breath. No time to dwell. She will have to use him instead.

She fixes the best smile she can and looks up at her students. "Well, best to get this out of the way then."

The students inch closer and, as expected, Flutters reacts.

She holds the chuchi by his thorax, the soft peach-fuzz of its body positively vibrating against her fingers. She knows chuchi. She knows their nature. She knows that however many hours she spends training or taming that that they would remain as they always had been—vicious little bloodsuckers.

Flutters' silken wings beat harder in effort to get free, but she has a practiced grip, delicate but strong.

One girl in the group lurches back, eyes widening behind her glass, lips curling. "What the holy hell is that?"

Shiemi frowns, puzzled. "It's a chuchi. In order to give you your temptaint, we must have your blood drawn by a demon. These are ones I raised in my garden. They are quite harmless—" However, her explanation sparks another student, a boy, to cower behind the girl.

She recognizes him immediately from the roster—a Shima, the first since Renzo.

"A ch-chuchi? A swarm of those things can suck the blood out of a cow in under a minute!"

". . . I raise my chuchi on goat blood. It's much easier to," she trails off and decides that might be a better lesson for later. "Nevermind, regardless. Chuchi are low level demons. They will not harm you so long as I am here."

Of the seven, only five of them need temptaints. The Shima boy presents his arm and looks away, but otherwise seems oddly put-upon afterwards, claiming he wasn't scared at all, though Shiemi felt the clammy rush of his skin. She smiles warmly regardless and then turns her attention to the girl from before.

She is pale as a lily when Shiemi turns to her.

"Oh no, honey, it's fine. Here, Flutters won't hurt you." She gestures for the girl to give her hand, but she shakes her head. "Here, it's just a little bite and you're good to go."

The girl shakes her head. "Isn't there another way?"

Shiemi frowns, patiently, gently. "I'm afraid not, hon." She waits and the girl slowly extends her arm, the unmarred dark skin looking like a slender offering. Shiemi lowers the chuchi and her demon moth does his job and bites down.

Afterwards, when her coworker slips out, she makes a show of summoning Nii-chan, something that to her feels as natural as breathing, after so many years of working together. Nii-chan appears at the beckon of her blood, like normal, bringing with him his three sisters to help heal the cuts and bites.

"Not all summoning is for fighting." She continues, gently as the greenmen settle around the room. "Being a Tamer is a partnership between you and the demon you summon. It is a level of respect and working together that allows for Tamers to make contracts with higher ranking demons."

A student raises his hand. "What are the usual terms of these contracts?"

"Well, in the way of law, you must give something to get something. You make a connection with your summons by pressing down with your own blood," She lifts the paper, feeling the terrible irony as she pinches the edges of the paper. "And keeping this paper intact. If it is ripped or torn during battle, your summons will return to their homes."

Another student raises their hand. "So, like, after that they do whatever you say?"

"No, its—"

"Do I _have _to make a deal with demons?"

Shiemi waits for silence as the usual barrage of questions pour in. Does the contract mean she can control demons? Does raising demons make them more docile? How many demons can I summon? If my demon attacks me? Do I exorcise it?

Then again, _she _thought she knew everything about summoning.

It takes some time, but soon her silence is earned. Nii-chan returns to her, bounding into the palm of her hand and crying out in that cheerful way of his. It makes her smile.

"I have had a contract with Nii-chan for many years now. He has been my ally in battle and my friend in need. He can be the tiniest force," She reaches inside herself, chipping off a piece of energy all for Nii-chan. He gladly takes it expands in size, taller than her, taller than their coworker, taller than the lowest point in the high ceiling. "And rival to a mountain."

Her students clamor back, shocked, grabbing backs of chairs and bags, one of them even has prayer beads out. Nii-chan's sisters throw up armfuls of flowers, peels of excited laughter cheering their brother on.

Then, Nii-chan shrinks back, cheery as can be, into the palm of her hand.

"It is all dependent on a Tamer's power." She says and releases them, back to the house, back to the garden for milk and honey. She looks out at her class. "Remember this, Taming is a partnership. Not a slave contract. You do not demand what you cannot give back."

The severity of her statement seems to carry like a weight over the entire class. The smell of blood and fear in the room settling to shame. It is not until she gets a look at the clock in the back of the room, that she realizes the loss of time.

"Ah, well, I guess that will be all for today then. Please remember to read the first chapter and we will discuss tomorrow. Also, remember that you will begin physical training soon and to bring a change of clothes." The students rise and bow in unison, thanking her for the lesson, before filing out. Some prod at tender leaf bandages, others smile at her as they slip through the door.

Shiemi leans back against the desk as the last of them disappear and sighs, audibly.

"Scaring the kids, Moriyama?"

It takes her a second, but soon she finds the tall, statuesque figure in the back of the classroom, half-hidden behind the second door. Izumo. She jumps to her feet. "Izumo-chan! I didn't know you were working here too!"

She cannot quite tell, but she thinks she catches the edges of a smile on Izumo's face. Shiemi makes her way up the aisle to embrace her. She hasn't seen Izumo in so long, not since she was sick.

Her old friend walks to meet her, strutting in with her usual proud stroll, hip-checking the door on her way. Her hair is nearly down to her knees now, still in the familiar style of the women in her family. She looks official in her True Cross black coat. "When did you get a job here? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't!" Izumo says, snappily. "I just heard through the grapevine that _you _were out of hiding and I—" Izumo trails off as she draws closer, her gait slowing to a halt.

Shiemi embraces her, arms cradling around the familiar body, and she feels Izumo reciprocate, out of muscle-memory or maybe surprise. Shiemi carries on, oblivious. "I haven't seen you since we were station in Harajuku!" She steps back, cupping Izumo's elbows in her palms. "We need to catch up! Tell me everything!"

"Shiemi, you—" Izumo murmurs, eyes rounding before her expression pulls taut. Shiemi begins to pull away, planning on grabbing her bag and class schedule, but her old friend then seizes her shoulders and studies her very intently, eyes squinting. Shiemi leans back in her grasp, confused.

"I-Izumo-chan? What—what are you doing?"

"Shiemi," Izumo stares at her, brows drawing together. "Shiemi, you haven't aged a _day_."

* * *

duh-duh-DUH.

EDITS: so much grammar stuff and i switched up izumo's intro. also, I created a plot hole then fixed it. So now it is mid-April, the beginning of the Japanese school year. Also, Amaimon gave Shiemi a pet-name and I didn't think it fit very well. So that's gone.

i think i have a proper plot line set for this baby. also, i've been re-reading the books for reference and i feel ashamed to say my original Shiemi wasn't as gutsy. Amaimon wasn't as angsty either, but you all seem to like it. or, i think you do. i see people liking and following, and i don't just write for reviews, but i do like to know what people think.

regardless, i love writing this. it's a good stress-relief and it makes me happy. and i'm really proud of this chapter. so, i'm still on nightshifts, so i'll probs be stalking this fics progress all night. so, drop a like, a kudos, if you have a sentence or phrase or scene you liked, lettme know! ideas for the fic? lettme see! like this characterization? tell me! hat this charactization? i have more shiemi/amaimon fics saved under my favorites on my page.

have a good night!

\- cafeanna


	4. in which the door rattles twice

**title:** ageless

**genre: **romance / hurt / comfort / horror

**pairings:** shiemi/amaimon, rin/bon

**warnings: **conversations about cancer, vague allusions to abusive relationships, and my many grammatical errors

* * *

"This is a story about the  
monsters and the lovers,

This is a story about how  
they became the same thing."

—Emily Palermo, _Love in the Time of Monsters_

* * *

**chapter four: in which the door rattles twice**

* * *

Shiemi manages to convince Izumo to go to lunch with her. It is no great feat as Izumo seems adamant not to let her out of her sight, but Shiemi feels cheered all the same. They wind up at one of the campus cafés that is reserved for professors—and professor incomes—exclusively.

It is a lively little place, meant to descend from the streets of Paris. Even the menu was dual lingual.

It would have been the perfect place for old friends to catch up, but Izumo has not taken her eyes off of her since they left the classroom. From the walk over to the moment they were seated at little iron-wrought chairs, Izumo has been studying her like a Tamer does a particularly rare demon.

Her gaze shifts from the length of her hair, to the curve of her cheek, the skin of her neck, and so on.

And now, facing each other, without the pretense of walking side-by-side, Shiemi is privy to the full intensity of that stare.

It makes her uncomfortable.

"So um, how have you been, Izumo-chan?"

Izumo blinks at her. "How have I been." She repeats this, almost to herself, slowly. "You want to know how _I've _been?"

"Yes," Shiemi struggles a moment. "How have things been?"

There is an awkward silence then, quickly filled by an astute waiter that comes to take their orders and leaves them feeling vaguely insulted when Izumo pronounces _et aux noix _with every letter.

"I would Yelp review this place," Izumo grumbles under her breath, "but I'm pretty sure I would wake up with Mephisto at the foot of my bed waiting to force-feed me that salad."

It makes Shiemi laugh and, for a moment, her heart is _full. _She has not seen Izumo in ages! Even in the multitude of letters, texts, and phone calls, nothing can truly replace the simple pleasure of sharing one's company.

"I missed this," she says aloud and Izumo stops looking over her shoulder, glaring at the waiter. Her brow raises in question. Shiemi smiles. "I've missed this. I miss seeing you, having lunch, being here," She breaks off with a smile. "I think all I really need now is Yuki-chan telling me to believe in myself more and Rin-chan swinging through with his demon friends and I'll be in high school again."

Izumo huffs like she's annoyed. "That's silly. No one wants to be stuck in one place forever."

"I know," Shiemi admonishes, blithely. "It's just the feelings I've missed."

"Me too," Izumo relents after a beat. "This past week has been . . . hectic. I'm glad I was able to run into you while I'm in the city."

"Oh, are you not staying long?"

"I can't. The Knights asked me to come check on something for them and one of them mentioned that you were in the area. I couldn't pass up the chance to see you."

Even though it feels like a compliment, something that should fill her with warmth, she feels utterly cold.

It may be the way that Izumo is looking at her now.

"How's the Husband?" Izumo asks.

It amuses Shiemi to no end that, of all her cram school classmates, that Izumo had been the one most unbothered by their relationship. In a domain in which everyone had an opinion, it had been refreshing. Shiemi could not thank Izumo enough for giving her support where she needed it and objective advice when she wanted it.

Still, Izumo is Izumo and upon meeting Amaimon and hearing him refer to her as his bride; Izumo had dubbed him the Husband. Much to his amusement.

"He's been good." She ventures, wondering how much to add. "He was gone when I left for work this morning. I think he's been anxious that I've been returning to the workforce—or, well, teaching. In person again."

Izumo shifts in her seat, fingers bracketing her water glass. "So, have you and the husband been," Izumo trails off, making a gesture that Shiemi cannot quite decipher. Izumo's gaze flickers to hers, almost insistent. "I mean, _have _you?"

"Well, what do you mean?" Shiemi prompts, confused.

As soon as its out of her mouth, it clicks. _Oh, _**_oh, _**_well that's forward. _Shiemi can feel her face growing redder than a pepper. She is about to correct Izumo—or confirm for Izumo—but her friend continues in the same, stilted speech.

"Like, have you two," she trails off, continuing to make gestures and then, red faced herself, leans forward and whispered. "Been doing blood rituals or something?"

Shiemi stares at her.

And stares.

After a moment, her flush of embarrassment turns to laughter. Wild peels of laughter. "Oh, oh my," Shiemi leans back in her chair, guileless of the waiter's return with their orders. He pauses a moment, taking in the scene, their flushed faces and bows out as quickly as he appeared.

Izumo's face is redder than a tomato now. "What? Why are you laughing? I'm being _serious_!" She hisses, pointing her fork at her playfully.

Shiemi wipes a tear from the corner of her eye, minding her makeup. "Oh, oh, I thought you were talking about _sex_."

"Huh? Oh. Oh! Ohmigod," Izumo drops her fork and hides her face behind her hands. Shiemi giggles, helplessly. Izumo stays behind her hands a moment, muttering to herself what sounds like a prayer for strength and patience. When she looks up, her expression is decidedly somber. "That's not what I meant."

Izumo's cheeks are still pink, as if sunburnt, it makes Shiemi smile. "That's a relief."

"And when did you get so casual about sex?" Izumo continues in a furious whisper, taking up her fork again. "I remember the days when you didn't even know what a crush was."

Shiemi raises her brows, reaching for the pepper across the table. "Well, when you're married to someone like Amaimon, you learn not to be so conservative about those kinds of things." She smiles absently, thinking of her husband's blunt manner. "He's very . . . open."

"It's a demon thing."

"It's an age thing."

Izumo grumbles to herself, the color in her cheeks cooled to a rosy kiss. "Whatever," Izumo finally stays, stabbing at her garden salad. She finally sets her silverware aside. "What I'm asking, really asking, is," Izumo takes a breath, "have you two been exchanging blood or anything like that?"

Shiemi has dealt with many things in her career as a Tamer. Since she entered into this world of demons, gods, and monsters; she has put her literal blood, sweat, and tears into her work. She has made blood pacts with demons. She has bitten her own thumb enough times to worry a scar.

She has fed her own blood into her garden to make it grow. She has exchanged locks of hair for information and endured charms and consequences.

She has even had her insides liquidated by chemo and came out alive, healthy even, with a heart that beats and lungs that breathe. White blood cells that don't multiply and attack.

Even then, the thought of exchanging blood with her husband has never crossed her mind. She is not even sure of the implications of such a thing.

She thinks of those big, dark jars of blood she feeds to her chuchi—and imagines drinking that down—and feels sick.

Her nose scrunches in disgust. "No, never."

Izumo snorts, indignant. "You could have fooled me. I haven't seen you since the Husband spirited you away to a house in the middle of nowhere." Izumo says evenly, but Shiemi can hear the tension in her voice return with fervor, taut as a bowstring. "So, either you've found the fountain of youth or you have exceptionally good genes because I'm sure feeling pretty crazy right now."

Everything about Izumo seems to be winding tighter and tighter. Her jaw, her fists, her mouth.

It's a pained expression, she realizes. Izumo is worried about her and she is sitting here, letting her stew in that worry needlessly.

She summons a smile. "Well, you know how I like to stay healthy—especially after I got sick—I've completely cut out sugars and most fats! I work out. Oh, and my skincare routine has been quite—"

"That's not it." Izumo shakes her head, eyes closing. "That's not. You look the _same_."

Her smile strains. "Well, thank you, Izumo, but—"

"No, Shiemi," Izumo leans into the table, eyes boring into hers once more. "You look _exactly _the same. It's like looking at a picture of you when you were twenty-two. It's—it's—before Osaka. It's before you left. You look like you did _before._"

Though Izumo doesn't mean it, it comes out like a swear. That _before. _That implication.

It hits Shiemi right in the throat and lodges there like tears.

Izumo falls silent. "Oh, Shiemi, I didn't mean—" But, she cannot think of anything to say, try as she might. She did mean it, then. In some small way.

Shiemi tightens her fingers into fists on her lap, tamping down that feeling. Whatever its name was. Her smile feels tight and unnatural now. Twitching on her cheek. "I wasn't exactly in the best shape when I left Osaka." Shiemi murmurs and watches the words wrap around Izumo's throat. "When the doctor ordered me to leave the city, I didn't really have a choice if I wanted to . . . get better."

She wants to say _if I wanted to live_ because it's true.

Regardless, Izumo flinches as if struck.

And Shiemi feels guilty about it, her stomach clenches uncomfortably and she hates it. Hates that the first time she's seen Izumo in years has to be this way.

She hates more that she thinks about that time when she left her life, and career, in Osaka. The remission, the outbreak of demonic attacks, the orders to move to the countryside, somewhere peaceful and with clean air. It had been sudden, she knew that.

She knew her mother and friends and coworkers worried, but she had been sick so long, been sick and tired, and the world was always too loud, too bright, too full.

It had been a relief to leave it all behind and let someone else make the decisions.

"You look good," Izumo ventures, slowly as if she were afraid to speak. "You look healthier. It makes me happy."

It softens her, the look in Izumo's eye. It was never a measuring of grief, but her mother and Amaimon aside, Shiemi had always felt worse about telling Izumo when she had gotten sick. It had been so soon after Izumo found out she was pregnant. Shiemi had not wanted to put any added stress on her, especially after everything that happened.

Still, Izumo had been at her bedside, belly growing and temper flaring. She had knitted her socks and helped her cut her hair. Then she had knitted her hats.

Shiemi had been the one going through it, but Izumo had been hurt by it.

"Thank you," she whispers and it feels like a relief. One that she cannot quite touch, not yet.

Izumo looks like she wants to say more, but in that moment, her phone goes off. It's a loud alarm, an air horn of a thing, that disturbs several patrons—her coworkers—and leaves Izumo startled. She snatches it from her purse, glances at it, then wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. "Sorry, just a minute."

She rises from her seat, graceful and lovely as always, her long dark hair trailing after her like a curtain.

Shiemi catches the tail end of her sentence. "—sweetie? Ooh, fighting with Mike again?" Izumo's voice is tender and soft, the softest she has ever heard from her. She steps out of the café with a chorus of tiny bells.

She is not gone long, but when she returns Izumo is physically more relaxed, even if her eyebrow keeps ticking. "And that is why I never leave foxes to watch my kid. It's so annoying. My familiars think she looks just like my mom, so I never hear the end of it."

And like that, the conversation shifts.

And she jumps for it.

Shiemi cannot help but smile. "How is Tsuki? I haven't seen her in ages."

Izumo hums a little to herself, crossing her legs at the knee. "She's great. She' s been going to school and taking lessons from the Inari temple gods. She is heir to the name and all the rest, so everyone expects great things." Her voice always gentles when she talks of Tsuki, her little moon, her baby and then she pauses, a little wistful, and says, "I think she takes after her father more."

That draws a bought of silence from the both of them.

The waiter comes to collect their plates. He leaves a joint check.

* * *

Shiemi feels strangely guilty when she gets home later.

Amaimon is still gone, but then she is not quite sure when she should be expecting him back.

The thought strikes her as she stands on the threshold of the portal, looking back into her empty house and her empty house looking back at her. She locks the portal and puts her keys on the hook, takes off her shoes and drops her bag onto the side table.

She knows she should check on her hobgoblins. She should check the garden, the houseplants, her greenhouse plants, start dinner, call her mother—

But, instead, full of that ugly feeling that had been festering since lunch, she drifts through her own house like a ghost. She haunts the halls and pokes her head into empty rooms, looking for people that aren't there. No husband lounging on the couch. No children running the halls.

The whirl of the heater echoes her steps. The hobgoblins sleep in a pile in the kitchen.

She stands for a moment in the dark, thinking.

Her home feels tainted after her conversation with Izumo.

"Spirited away to the middle of nowhere," she murmurs to herself and drifts through the house. The waxy leaves of plants twist down to greet her as she passes one hall and then the subtle scent of flora as she passes into another. Everywhere, all around her are plants, framed photographs, hand-woven blankets, and books.

Her home is a cozy one. One she nested in after she left Osaka for the country.

Mephisto had helped Amaimon arrange it. A new doctor, a new place, a new treatment.

She hung for a moment on the door to her greenhouse, the trapped heat clinging to the glass windows, a hazy blend of green beyond it.

She loved the house the instant they stepped into it. She slept for hours that summer in the garden, soaking up the rays of fresh sunshine, Amaimon curled beside her in a worried, protective slump.

He had never been the overly affectionate type, though he showed it when he could. However, something in that summer made him cling to her. He would put her to bed at night, rubbing her nape where her hair had begun to bristle and kiss along the knobs of her spine where she began to fill out. Nothing sexual. Just warmth. Real warmth soaking back into her with the sun's rays.

She had been so overwhelmed, with the hospital, with her friends, with dying that—

—it had been a relief to get _away _from it all. Away from the big exciting city, away from her well-meaning and teary friends, away from chemicals and hospitals. She needed a break from the trauma of it all. She needed—in those days—space.

Shiemi got the strange, uncomfortable feeling that her blissful space was over and the thought made her cry.

* * *

The house is far too quiet in the days to come. There is no waking to loud music blaring from the old radio in the kitchen. No brigade of hobgoblins trampling the floor after bootheels. There are no forehead kisses, no nest of blankets and limbs, nor the fresh smell of lilac and on her pillow.

She still wakes every morning, makes breakfast, goes to work, checks her messages, comes home, tends to the garden, makes dinner and goes to bed.

Nothing wilts. Nothing wavers.

But, Amaimon's disappearance is intimately felt in every aspect of her day-to-day.

She pulls up a list of forests on her laptop and searches for nature preserves under attack, and deforestation plans, and wildfires. She comes up with many results. Too many.

Then she feels stupid for it having occurred to her that Amaimon never told her exactly where it is that he is disappearing to. Japan? China? America? South America? It is something oddly reminiscent of their early years, as friends, not dating. The secrets. The lapse in conversation.

She sits in their kitchen, with a mug, pouring over her lesson plan for the coming day, when she realizes that she has read the same line over twice now. Resigned, she rises from her chair and drifts over to her school bag that she left on the hall table. She left her phone in there, as per usual.

She finds two missed calls from Izumo and some texts. A couple texts from Rin. An article link from Miwa.

Nothing from Amaimon.

She shoots off a quick message to him, but when she checks it later, after class, she finds that her own text still hasn't gone through. A simple _I love you _sat with an exclamation point, unsent and, therefore, unread.

She tries to send it again, and again, and again.

* * *

Of her cram school student, none seem to show any promise as a Tamer. It has become a source of her frustrations, or one of them at least, and Mephisto's annoyance.

"Really? Not one of them? Not even the Shima?" Mephisto looks aghast, his delicate tea cup poised over its matching saucer. He had asked her high tea more often than once and even though his style is vaguely European, he still insists on a Japanese tea ceremony.

"I'm afraid not." She says, resigned. "I'm going to try another approach, more relaxers and demon blood. Maybe even some summoning games? I think those might help."

Mephisto waves his hands dismissively and sets his tea cup aside. He looks suddenly too resigned to speak as he falls deep in thought. Shiemi does her best not to shift or sip too loudly. She has always felt vaguely uncomfortable alone in Mephisto's presence, but that had never been often. Never been much of a problem.

But, now Mephisto almost always insists that they get lunch together. In-laws and all.

And Shiemi is less and less likely to refuse.

Mephisto sighs, fingers drumming against the arm of his chair. "Well, that must be hard on you, being such an exceptional Tamer and all."

Shiemi sets her tea cup down on the table between them. The sugary rind of the glass suddenly too sweet. She bites her lips together.

Amaimon often told her that Mephisto did not approve of their union, however contrary to his actions. Mephisto did not like the words that followed them. Did not like the taunts of a demon king marrying a demon tamer. He said it made for bad publicity.

Until one day, Amaimon announced that his brother was over it.

"It _is _frustrating," she relents, slowly, carefully as she might pot a sapling. "I have carried them through the steps, but they simply don't have the strength or the talent yet." Mephisto's frown returns briefly. Like a flash. It renews her vigor. "But—but I am going to be trying some other methods soon, like—"

"_I think,_" Mephisto says smoothly, it almost sounds innocent, unanimous. "That this is an opportune time to apply some pressure onto our dear students. Sometimes true gifts, like my little brother's, are only ever fully realized when put under pressure."

She remembers the story of Rin's awaken and shivers.

"What are you suggesting?"

Mephisto leans back in his over-stuffed chair. "I was thinking, perhaps, your hobgoblins may be sufficient. They can act as motives for the children to summon something to protect them."

It takes her a moment of mumbling over the words before the meaning sinks in and, when it does, Shiemi feels the sick, uneasy feeling of being alone with someone very dangerous.

"I don't think," she begins, but then Mephisto tilts his head, his teeth peaking beneath his lips and she falls silent. He is not saying anything, but the intention of his actions are clear. _Amaimon must have been lying when he said he was over it. _She can feel a cool chill sweep over her. "Give me a couple more days with them. I'll see what I can do."

"I would rather be do this sooner." He says gently, but his tone suggests no room for argument. "I would prefer that they gain these insights sooner rather than later."

"I think I can get more out of them if I'm given more time."

It's abrupt. Rude, even.

Shiemi stares him down.

Mephisto stares back. Unamused.

"Please."

A slow smile tugs at his mouth, more fang than before, but he tames his curling lips into a mask. "Whatever you say, _Schwägerin. _I will give you three days to get some results from our little cram school students, but after that I _will _be stepping in."

He says nothing more, but the threat is still there. She can taste it like the sugar in her mouth.

Shiemi nods, even though she is shaking on the inside, even though her fists are clenched with terror, she smiles. "Of course, thank you."

"Great! Now, we shall have cake." He produces a square blond cake from seemingly nowhere and plates it even more quickly. The cake is spongy, almost airy, with little wheels of pineapple decorating the top under a dusting of powdered sugar.

Shiemi takes a bite if only to satisfy Mephisto. Her stomach is upset.

"I had Amaimon pick this up for me the other day," Mephisto continues, conversationally. "I may have given my whole heart to the land of the rising sun, but my stomach still loves the culinary arts of Germany. This was my favorite coffeecake to take with the—are you alright?"

Shiemi realizes that she had frozen at the mention of her husband's name and puts her fork down.

"'The other day?'" She repeats, like the times when she had to question the foreign exorcists in Osaka on their Japanese. Mephisto nods, politely. "You saw him the other day?"

"Yes," Mephisto takes a bite of his cake and smiles. He continues eating until he is plating himself another slice. "Trouble in paradise?"

"No, no. We just—he has been helping a friend of his. Her forest was overrun?" It comes out like a question. Mephisto's flat expression gives her nothing, but he cants his head to her words. "I've just missed him these past couple of days." _A week,_ she realizes belatedly. _He's been gone a week._ "I just worry."

"I wouldn't," Mephisto says, nose scrunching. "My little brother is always finding a way to make it through. Even when he shouldn't."

* * *

i hate to end on a cliff-hanger/shocking note, but honestly i'm doing whatever i want. into the hellfire!

i've had to physically restrain myself from posting this too early because i wanted to read more of the manga, but sadly my library only has up to 20, so i will have to buy the rest of them (or find them online, camp at a store, i've got bills kids).

i really want to tell a grander story here, something that is constantly unfolding and i think izumo is a big part of that. shiemi and amaimon lived in their own world for a yet unnamed number of years (guess in the comments) and she has a kid, not a baby, a kid! so, we're getting an idea of the passage of time. little context clues. also, who is izumo's baby-daddy?

when will rin appear? where is everyone else? why have i been binge eating? all this and more on the next episode of Ageless.

have a good night!

\- cafeanna


	5. in which the princess is cornered

**title:** ageless

**genre: **romance / hurt / comfort / horror

**pairings:** shiemi/amaimon, rin/bon

**warnings: **very tired authoress, grammatical errors, and lack of communication that might solve everything, but imma keep riding this

* * *

"This is a story about the  
monsters and the lovers,

This is a story about how  
they became the same thing."

—Emily Palermo, _Love in the Time of Monsters_

* * *

**chapter five: in which the princess is cornered**

* * *

Their property line stretched to accommodate a small wooded area that, if any unluck passersby were to wonder into would either find lackluster and barren, or thick enough to be lost in for weeks.

It is a clever trick of cloaking sigils that hid the marvel of Shiemi's garden from prying eyes and gardening magazines. However, sometimes people had a little more Sight than others, but not enough to really put them on the mark. Shiemi is sure Bon wrote a scholarly paper on it once.

Regardless, her garden is not only for her enjoyment, but for True Cross's expenses. It may not be the supply store that her mother and grandmother and great-grandmother ran, but a supply of supplies. Monkshood and Saint John's Wart, bluebells and lavender, all had equal footing here.

And then, the creatures she tamed.

Now, with her hobgoblins following at her heel, she strolls up the grassy slopes into the trees, feeling the deep inhales of early autumn air filling her lungs. This air always did something to her, churned something cold and ill in her stomach, like a half-remembered dream. Still, she persists onward, the dark jar in her basket swaying heavily on her arm.

She moves deftly into the trees, where the leaves blotted out the light and the pine needles made a carpet of the ground. Distantly, she can hear the buzzing of wings, the brief glimpses of light between the tree branches. Her chuchi nest is close.

Three generations strong she still feels compelled to feed them during the daytime, when they are lazy and suggestible, rather than at night, at true night, when their wings glow effervescent and their calls can disorient the mind.

Amaimon had been as cautious about her taming low and mid-level demons when she retired. He was sure his kin would be favorable to her; however, he would often still trail after her whenever she went out to feed them. He would let her work, take up a perch in the trees, sitting statue still with his eyes distant as he gnawed on a nail, deep in thought, only speaking when she spoke to him.

Without him crunching through the pine with her, she feels rather alone in the woods. Without his hand curling into her own. Without his half-hummed songs under his breath. She feels hyper-aware of everything around her, every leaf, every branch, every flower.

It's why she took the babies with her.

It's still weird to wake up every day without him there, without his constant presence wrapping around her like a blanket. She feels cold in the morning and hungry all afternoon. Peaking over her shoulder looking for him, waiting for him, in some strange way between her heart and her bones.

He still hasn't called either.

Unceremoniously, she reaches her destination, the old twisted boughs of a tree with gnarled branches and rising roots. The erosion of time and its inhabitants making it a prime example from her old textbook—a chuchi nest.

Idly, she wonders if Mephisto would approve her students coming to visit so they could see for themselves. A few of them have expressed interest in demonology, and even if not Taming, it would still be a useful skill to nurture. Demon appreciate, that is.

She stops in front of the old wooden trough set up before the tree. Already, she can see a few chuchi lingering in the branches above, the silvery gleam of wings drawing a stark outline against the canopy. Sentries for the morning time when most of the swarm sleeps.

Satisfied with the stilled attention, she reaches into her basket for the jar of goat's blood. Luckily for her, she can purchase it from her mom, though she has been reading about the benefits of raising the goats herself. She simply does not have the stomach, or heart, to do it. As she explained to her students at length last lecture.

Behind her, she hears the resounding gurgle of the hobgoblins. "Hush now." She murmurs and its answering whine follows. "It's not for you."

She hums a low chant, meant to keep her babies at bay while she cracks the seal on the jar.

The reaction is instant. Hundreds of buzzing, tiny wings take to the air, creating a dark silver cloud beneath the tree, but she pays them no mind, she keeps her focus, and carefully pours the blood into the trough. As she takes a step back, her eyes lift to catch the chuchi hovering in mid-air, wings buzzing, waiting, patient.

Once she breaks the chant, her swarm launches their attack, circling and diving as one whole swarm, feasting with hungry, tiny mouths.

Shiemi steps back, resealing the jar and slipping it back into her basket. At her feet, the hobgoblins moan and whine, their baby teeth gleaming in the low light even as the chuchi drink down their bloody offering. Shiemi longs to run her hand over their fuzzy heads and spiny backs to soothe them, but she knows better.

They may be her babies, but they are not pets.

They are demons and, however docile, however tamed, they will never go back on their nature.

And Shiemi does not expect them to.

* * *

Shiemi wakes to the sound of something shattering.

She lays in her bed for a moment, staring at her ceiling and the fingers of moonlight peeping through the curtains. Half-asleep, she thinks she's in their old apartment in Osaka; sandwiched between two noisy, nosy neighbors who constantly checked her finger for a ring and tusked like old biddies when she admitted that Amaimon was her boyfriend, not husband.

How simple those times were, paying rent and living her life, breaking the cycle of Moriyama women for the first time in generations. She felt so free, and terrified of the world at large.

She's not in Osaka though.

She is not a young woman living alone in a cramped apartment, but a retired exorcist living on protected land.

She is alone in her house and there is a noise downstairs.

She shifts in bed and touches her bare feet down onto the floorboards, and listens. The rustling continues downstairs, she can hear it. Slowly, she rounds the bed and finds the bedroom door cracked.

Amaimon had the habit of leaving doors opened. The thought cools her some before the realization sinks into her like honey into tea.

There is a brief moment of non-fear, somewhere beyond the realm of reality and wishes, where Shiemi stands in her nightgown, not breathing, listening to the noises in the house. She can still hear shuffling, but no clicking of talons on the hardwood, or thumps of tiny tails.

It's not her hobgoblins. It's a person.

She picks up her housecoat from the corner of the bed and pulls it around her, knotting the waist.

Slowly, she pulls open the bedroom door, sighing to herself as the door hinge gives with little noise. The rustling downstairs is undisturbed, banging of cabinets and drawers continuing a steady crescendo from—the kitchen? the living room? no, definitely the kitchen. Shiemi inches around the wall, stopping at the corner before the spiral staircase and peering down.

No lights on the first floor.

She begins her descent when the thought hits her that she might be walking into danger. Her muscles of her shoulders are tense and bunched as she slides along the wall, descending into the darkness below. Reaching into her housecoat pocket, she runs her finger along the slips of summoning paper she kept there, thick and textured with their inked sigils.

She hasn't had to summon anything big to defend herself in some time, but she can feel the briny power scraping in her veins. The feeling of adrenaline before a fight—

A step underneath her barefoot creaks, drawing a long low sound that pauses the shuffling in the kitchen. Sounds that are void of all else, holding breath, tense muscles, straining for the sound the signals to one another—

"Shiemi, are you awake?"

She feels her heart rise up in her throat as she descend the next few steps quickly and rounds the corner of the landing into the kitchen to find a dark shape, the faint light of the refrigerator casting a cold blue glow on a long dark coat, green hair, and pale, pale skin—

The figure stills like an animal and the fridge door slams shut. Shiemi snaps the kitchen light on just as fast, as if scared to be left alone in the darkness. She feels foolish as she does it, diving for the light switch like a lifeline, but when the yellow light fills the room, she sees him.

"Amaimon." It's half-question, half-accusation, a mix of both coloring her tone as the realization sinks into her.

Her husband is sitting on the edge of the countertop, kicking his legs.

"Hello," he says, yawning as he waves a spoon. Shiemi stares at him, taking in the ripped jeans, the rumbled hair, the carton of lavender ice cream in his hands.

But he's _here. _Her mind is keen to supply the last few weeks of absences, of missing him, of wishing for him to be here. After talking with Mephisto she was sure that when she saw him again, she would throw herself into his arms and wrap herself up in him, just like those romance novels she used to read as a teenager.

And now—

_Now_—

Shiemi presses her lips together, deep in thought. Amaimon looks up at her from his late-night snack, head tipping in consideration.

"Did I wake you?"

Shiemi nods, but she feels as though she has been up for hours.

As if she just finished running a marathon.

She drifts between the kitchen and the conjoining hallway, between the yellow light and the darkness filling up behind her. The crash of adrenaline feels like it's hitting her all at once, the shaky, sweaty feeling in her palms, the race of her pulse. She feels lightheaded, disoriented, tired.

Still, her eyes drink in the sight of him hungrily, and she notes that he too looks tired, eyes too wide and unfocused, bruises of sleepless nights under his eyes.

"Where have you been?" She asks, fingers curling into her robe.

Amaimon's teeth clink around the spoon in his mouth. "Aiding my kin. The situation has escalated."

"Escalated." She repeats, as if it were a valid excuse not to call your wife. "Okay," Her gaze skips over him to the flowerpot on the counter, tracing the jagged edges of the terracotta pot and soil spilling over the sides, the tomato plant sits slumped over on the counter.

It must have been the thing that broke.

Amaimon says nothing when she looks at him again, offers no explanation to either how it broke or how the situation _escalated_. "Are you leaving m—again?"

The words catch in her mouth. She almost asks him if he is leaving _her, _but stops herself.

Amaimon lowers his spoon, frown tugging at his mouth. "Yes."

"How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know."

Shiemi curls her fingers tighter. "Can you, could you, at least, tell me where you're going—"

"No."

It feels so final it catches the breath in her throat. She feels as if she had been slapped, though she hasn't. It still reels through her. The mounting oppression of everything she wants to say to him just on the tip of her tongue and not coming out. Mephisto, Izumo, the chuchi—

The lump in her throat expands against her windpipe, but she bites her lips together, refusing to cry. Not in front of him.

When she looks back at Amaimon, he has his attention back on the ice cream carton, digging the spoon into it with vigor.

"I'm going back to bed. Use a bowl." She says as she turns back to the hall and snaps the light off as she goes. The climbs the stairs quickly, darting up the stairs with her nightgown flying around her like wings.

When she reaches the top of the stairs, she lets the darkness wrap around her. It's cold and thick, but Shiemi can see the silver lining of her bedroom door, the arches of furniture, and spaces of shadow. She is alone. Alone in darkness. The lump in her throat thickens and tears crack from her eyes, hot and salty and gathering under her chin, down her throat.

Her hands cover her mouth, drowning out the noise of her cries.

She can hear the floorboards creak on the first step below, signaling the approaching closing in behind her.

It makes her lunge for her bedroom door, still gaping in the darkness, she turns and slams it, sliding the lock home. She knows the sharp sound of it would be enough to keep Amaimon away, but it still feels so silent, so hollow.

There used to be a time when Amaimon was the only one privy to her tears, her fears, her joys.

Now, she just wants to be alone with herself.

* * *

When she wakes in the morning, her muscles are stiff from being curled in a ball against the door and Amaimon is gone.

* * *

For the next three days, the clocks in Shiemi's classroom and office seem to tick even louder. It was subtle at first, but steadily in the silence of group meditation, it became more and more noticeable.

Her students have pointed it out. Her coworkers have pointed it out.

But, Shiemi knows its best to not like the constant _tick tick tick _under her skin.

For the next three days, she throws herself into her teaching, starting off her next round of classes with spiritual enhancing teas and meditation. She makes her own summoning paper, grinds her own ink, casts blessings with sacred oils and perfumes. All the things that strengthens her abilities, only proves that her students don't have her proficiency.

In essence, her class is made up of potential knights and arias, fighters and slayers. Spiritual strength is not lacking in the group and she knows from her conversations with the other teachers that they are a talented bunch. Still, it is not turning out the results that she needs.

And knowing Mephisto, he expects nothing short of multi-talented excellence.

Her own graduating class had been in a league of its own, Shiemi had no shortage of internships or career choices after True Cross. She honed her skills as a Tamer and Doctor, her usage of herbs and demons to heal others was a loving skill, crafted through years of training and under the claw and thumb of the school's academic prowess.

That aside, Shiemi does not want her students to have to go through what she did.

And the clock is ticking.

* * *

Her students have been wising up to Shiemi's insistence on their summoning skills and, to her great joy, they seem eager not to disappoint. She leads them through summoning spells and songs. She teaches them about sigils and hand signs. She has stuffed them with enough protein filled treats and spiritual teas to have their breath smelling like St. John's and thyme, but in the end, no dice.

At the end of her rope, she leads them through a guided practice in her private office, one student at a time. A choice that, she knows would be unethical in any other school, but at True Cross it was allowed.

For however strict and buttoned down on protocol True Cross was, the vetting process for teachers placed a high value in experience and success. In experience, Shiemi had spades of missions, patients, and holy wars. Her suggestions were uncontested in faculty meetings.

She had picked up her teaching license during her internship after graduation, but had not truly used it until she formally retired. She taught online classes in Herbology and Demonology, gave pointers on Taming and consulted in cases.

She has never had a student fail.

And even then, she has never seen a student fail in front of her.

Now, in the safety of her office without the prying eyes of peers or Mephisto, the browned summoning paper in Anri's fingers feel like the white flag of defeat. Shiemi has talked her through the summons so many times, Anri boasted about being able to repeat it backwards, but nothing to show for her skill.

Shiemi knows her expression must have shifted because when Anri looks at her, her eyes are watery at the corners. "I'm sorry, Moriyama-sensei, I just—"

"Oh no, sweetheart, no, you're alright." Shiemi says and smiles encouragingly, hands moving for the velvet lined box she keeps her paper in. "We can always try again."

Anri nods, dropping the paper on the table between them. Her eyes skirt across the teacups Shiemi had set up on the table, a traditional set Mephisto had given her for her office. The tiny red flowers seemed to flounce across the cups, aggressively cheerful in the somber moment, an affront to Anri's failure.

"What if I don't get it next time?" The girl's eyes meet hers, a sudden fierceness in them that reminds her of Izumo. A girl from an exorcist family with something to prove to herself and the world. "What if my talents just aren't with summoning. What then?"

As much as Shiemi wants to encourage her, to tell her that everything will be alright, there is a stronger impulse that wants to tell her to stop. Tell her that that is a dangerous thought to have. That, although the thought has plagued her herself, if Mephisto wants one of her students to be able to summon, then one of them should be able to summon.

He had a particular talent at that, finding hidden gems of potential and ripping them out.

Shiemi's Taming capabilities had been useful to him once too.

"We will just have to find your talent then," Shiemi assures and sets the box of summoning paper aside. She steeples her fingers across her lap. "We just have to be sure we do our due diligence in everyone's training. You never know who may have that special talent, right?"

Anri looks dubious. "I suppose. I'm really good at swords-play."

"That's wonderful. I have several friends with that skill. It comes in handy when in a fight."

"Moriyama-sensei, if you don't mind me asking," Anri shifts, eyes lowering once again. "Are you, are you trying to find an apprentice or something?"

Shiemi lifts a brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've really been trying to get us to summon these last few days. I was wondering if maybe, since you're a famous exorcist and all, if you were maybe looking for an apprentice to teach."

The assumption leaves her feeling stumped. For a moment, flattered that she is thought of as a 'famous exorcist' and then uneasy. She knows she has been pushing her student hard, and they have picked on it, but Shiemi doesn't feel comfortable pushing them any harder.

Shiemi smooths her skirt. "No, I haven't been looking for an apprentice, Anri-chan. But, if I was, I know I have a fine bunch of candidates for the job." Her student nods, sullenly. "Here, you've had enough for today. I don't want to push you."

Shiemi rises from her seat and Anri does too, effectively ending the conversation.

When she opens the door, Shiemi spots a tiny white dog sat on the settee outside her office. The dog is tiny, whiskered, wearing a smart pink suit with a little pocket watch dangling from his collar.

Shiemi pauses a moment, her hand pressed against the doorframe and the handle, creating a wall between Mephisto and her student. It's been three days since they had tea. Almost to the minute. She knows she cannot hold back anymore.

After another moment, she moves out of the way for her student, to let her pass. "Well, it's getting late. When you get back to the classroom, tell the others that we're done for today."

"Oh, but Moriyama-sensei, Shima-san hasn't—"

"That's alright. We'll refocus in our next class." Shiemi waves a hand dismissively, noting the tiny dog stretch from its perch. "I'll bring more cookies with me to class tomorrow."

Anri's brow crinkles momentarily and then smooths as she turns on her heel. "Have a good night, Moriyama-sensei." Then, her student turns down the corridor, turning a corner before disappearing into the maze of True Cross's faculty hall.

When she looks back up, the little white dog is gone.

"I didn't know you baked; I would have shown up sooner." A voice drifts from behind her.

Mephisto has manifested into his true form, that smart pink suit sharpening his shoulders and narrowing his waist as he folds himself elegantly into the chair her student occupied not moments before. He has one of her chocolate chip and rose cookies in his hand, sniffing slightly. "So, no progress, I take it?"

There is something low and patronizing in his tone, sulky almost as if he were actually rooting for her in the beginning.

He pours himself a cup of tea, the heady smell of herbs and blessed mead filling up the office space once again. Mephisto looks intrigued. "I haven't sampled this since the eighteenth century." He mumbles noncommittally, and takes a sip.

Shiemi stares at him for a long moment, before sinking into her own chair, hands folded across her lap. These things, as her mother always said, have to be taken with dignity.

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Afraid," Mephisto's eyes seems to come alive with the word, alight with something not even she knows. "Oh well, these things happen, I understand. Perhaps, we should move forward with my plan, then."

Shiemi can feel the tension in her neck. "What is your plan?"

Mephisto drags his spoon across the rim of his teacup, drawing a long scratching sound. He seems to be truly contemplative, brows furrowed before Shiemi realizes that his gaze is fixed on the photo frame on her desk. It is one of her and Amaimon in their garden several months back, after an exorcist dropped off their litter of hobgoblins, newly separated from their mother.

A phrase which Shiemi knows means that the mother had been killed.

"May I borrow your hobgoblins, Miss Moriyama?"

* * *

well, it's been awhile hasn't it? but here i am, with stories to tell and ideas to share.

i've been reading and rereading the manga to pin down one plot point, but i'm still unsure on another, but we will have some plot progress as we go. and more interactions that might result in a mini-school reunion and why this fic is also marked rin/bon (bc, i love). also, some background on izumo and her mysterious baby-daddy. also, mephisto's strange insistence on finding a summoner.

there's always some shit going on with true cross. also, i hope i'm making a point of the shiemi's defense of demons.

regardless, work has been well, i'm out of school for the timing being, so i've been writing a lot. if you're into BNHA i've been writing a lot for them if you're int. pls remember to leave your thoughts, ideas, opinions, or lines you liked in the box below, they really make me smile.

\- cafeanna


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